Touching Darkness (9 page)

“You're not getting transferred. You're the only person I completely trust.”

That both warmed her and dumped a burden on her.

Despite his declaration, his expression was sober. “There's something you should know about Braden.”

“He's leaving. The way he says it, sounds like a dangerous mission he could die on. Are you sending him overseas?”

“It's very likely he's a traitor.”

The word punched her in the gut. “No. You're just saying that—”

“I wish I were.”

“Who is he betraying?”

He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Us. The program. Our country. You know he's been asking questions. Doubting me. I think he had something to do with Robbins's going missing. It's why he looks so haggard. I didn't want to alarm you, but I think the Rogues have Robbins. Which means he's probably dead. And I have reason to believe Nicholas helped them find him. I can't get into details, but this you must understand: You cannot
see
Nicholas Braden socially. He's the potential enemy, and if he finds out you're my daughter, you will be vulnerable.”

Olivia's hand went to her mouth. “I can't believe that. Not that I think you're lying,” she added quickly. She'd heard this before, his insistence that her relationship to him could put her in jeopardy, particularly if she worked for the National Clandestine Service.

His expression softened to pity. “I'm sorry to say this, but his interest in you may well be only for what you can give him. And I mean information.”

No. Maybe she was naïve when it came to things of a sexual nature. After what had happened with Liam…the pain was fresh again after reliving it for Nicholas. She'd lost the desire to date someone she knew her father wouldn't approve. Until now. But could she be that warped in her judgment? Nicholas
had
been snooping, though he hadn't been lying about its being his father's folder. She couldn't tell her father about that now. He'd be furious that she hadn't told him earlier.

“He said his father worked with you in a classified program twenty-four years ago but you hadn't disclosed your relationship. That's why he was asking questions.”

“The reason he was asking questions was that somehow the Rogues got to him. But how?” He looked genuinely puzzled but hadn't addressed her comment.

“Did his father work with you?”

He stood. “I've got to meet with Jerryl. We'll talk about this later.” Which usually meant they wouldn't. “But for now, I insist you not speak with Braden at all. Don't let him use you. Not only will he make a fool out of you, but he could cause some deadly problems. For now I want him unaware of our suspicions. Understand?”

She nodded and left, still unable to believe Nicholas might have allied with the Rogues. But he was suffering guilt over something…

She put her hand on Sam's office door, her chest hurting from the thought of his being dead. He was jumpy but considerate and pleasant. Now he was gone. Two other officers had disappeared. Now she feared the worst for them, too.

She'd seen the aftermath the Rogues had left behind at the asylum: five men shot, one beaten. None had died, her father had assured her. She believed him, but she hadn't seen any of them since, except for Harry, and that encounter had been plain odd.

She looked up to see Nicholas coming around the corner, a frosty glass of one of those funky protein shakes in his hand. He saw where she was standing, and guilt shadowed his eyes.

She turned before her expression could give away her fears, doubts, and what she suspected was a terrible truth: He
had
been part of Sam's disappearance.

S
aturday morning, Nicholas woke with a start, roused from a nightmare about Robbins's death. He blinked. Standing by his desk was Fonda. And yet…not quite Fonda. Maybe he wasn't awake or it was the early-morning light, but it looked like her ghost. Her body was translucent and shimmered with her movement. She turned, saw him, and disappeared.

He rubbed his eyes. His imagination. Still, given their abilities, maybe it
was
her.

Nicholas had asked once if, when they were remote-viewing, a person in the vicinity could see them. The answer was no. Their presence could be sensed by someone sensitive to such things, but not visually.

He pulled himself out of bed, an uneasy feeling pressing down on him. He had to be careful about Jerryl remote-viewing him. Darkwell had taught him to block an intrusion, but he wasn't sure how good he was at it.

Nicholas took a long, hot shower and emerged in time to hear his phone ringing. Olivia's voice wasn't sweet and cheerful as it usually was. “It's Olivia. Darkwell would like to see you in his office in twenty minutes.”

The cool politeness matched the look she'd given him last night in the hallway. Granted, he was probably paranoid, but he'd seen accusation as she'd stood in front of
Robbins's door. Something had changed. She had said she was going to give him a copy of his dad's folder, but her demeanor had changed since then.

“Thanks, Livvie.” What to say? “I—”

She hung up during his pause, probably thinking that was the end of the call. He knew she was the epitome of politeness. She'd never hang up on anyone midsentence. Well, it was for the best. He should be relieved there was now a wall between them. Problem was, he wasn't.

Nicholas had already decided that, no matter what, he couldn't continue in the program, not with the doubts he harbored. Oddly enough, the thought of not seeing Olivia again was what sent a sharp pang through his chest. He'd never let himself get close to a woman before, other than physically. Yet, he'd only kissed Olivia, and she'd touched him in a deeper place than any other woman. Hell,
he
had become emotionally involved.

Which meant leaving was a good idea.

Twenty minutes later, Nicholas paused in front of Darkwell's door. Maybe Darkwell was going to fire him. Nicholas wasn't ready for that yet. Before he left, he had to get hold of that folder. This time, not even Olivia would stop him.

He knocked. Darkwell called for him to come in, and he stepped inside, lingering by the door.

“Close the door and sit.”

Uh-oh.
Nicholas took a seat in front of Darkwell's imposing desk. The man had a pleasant expression on his face, not a
you're-fired
kind of look.

“Nicholas, you did a fine job with your first hostage.” That was one good thing about Darkwell. He complimented his subordinates on their work.

“Thank you, sir. It was nice to finally help someone.”

“You helped that man and his family, your country, and DARK MATTER.” He held up a folder. “I've got another person for you to find. He's being targeted by the Rogues. We don't know where he is, not a clue. He's been living
off the grid for over twenty years. His name is Richard Wallace.” He set a picture of a man, perhaps in his thirties, on the table. “This is the last known picture of him. If you succeed, there will be a bonus.”

Darkwell was making it harder to leave. On purpose? Did he suspect Nicholas was thinking of leaving? Probably. The man was intelligent and cunning. Even now he was studying Nicholas.

“I'll do my best.” He stood.

“I'll see you in the mission room in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” He left.

Jerryl was out in the hallway. If Darkwell was suspicious of Nicholas, he hid it well. Jerryl did not. Nicholas shifted his gaze away from him, a knot tangling inside him. The flames from his nightmare licked at the edges of his mind. Time was running out.

 

Late Monday night Nicholas went down to the kitchen to see what he could scrounge up. He'd forgotten about dinner. Classical music drifted from the back, mostly unused portion of the kitchen, and the whole place smelled of baking cake and sugar. Olivia. Which brought to mind memories of their kiss, when she'd broken the rules, when he'd gotten a glimpse of the hunger inside her.

He stepped quietly, spotting her sitting on a stool at a long counter. The cake looked like a tower. Damn, she was beautiful, her long hair tied back with one of those white twist ties. Flour dusted her cheek and several strands of hair not captured in the ponytail. Her length of creamy neck pulled at him, physically pulled him, so he had to regain his balance to remain where he was.

She worked in such a state of concentration, she didn't even know he was there. He hoped she wasn't making that cake for him. No, no reason to do that. The dark blue shirt she wore was a little too large, slipping to the side and revealing a bare shoulder. The long, tight white pants she wore made her legs look long and slender. A gold anklet
glinted in the light as she moved. She was worrying her lower lip, making it red and puffy. He could think of better ways to make her mouth look like that.

As he watched, though, he realized she wasn't enjoying the process. She made a window, then a face, then used yellow icing to make long tresses of hair falling to the base: Rapunzel. Her delicate features were tensed, her movements rigid, a furrow between her eyebrows. She grabbed a pastry bag, jabbing black lines to denote bricks.

She picked up something that looked like a hammer, held it over her head, and slammed it sideways into her creation. Pieces of cake and icing flew everywhere. She pounded it over and over, grunting in exertion.

Shock stuck his feet to their position. Finally, she stopped, staring at the rubble. Her chest rose and fell with her deep breathing, but the tension had left her features.

“Maybe you should call your bakery ‘Angry Cakes.'”

She spun to face him, her hand to her heart, shooting out the words, “What are you doing in here?”

“I came to get something to eat, but this is much more interesting.”

She scraped the mess into the garbage can sitting next to the counter. He walked over and saw the remnants of at least two other cakes in the can.

“A safe way to release your anger,” he said, smiling to soften his words.

She nodded at the hammer, a meat tenderizer, he suspected. “Don't be so sure of that.”

He reached out to wipe away a streak of gray icing on her bare shoulder. At her surprised look, he held up his finger and stuck it in his mouth. “You've got icing all over you.”

And you want to lick off every bit of it, don't you?

Oh, yeah
. He did a mental
thwap.
Maybe she'd gotten caught trying to get a copy of that folder for him. “Livvie, if you got into trouble because of me—”

“I didn't get into trouble.” Her words came out clipped,
her mouth still in that compressed line. “But I sure got what I deserved for breaking the rules.”

“What's that supposed to mean? Tell me.”

When she ignored him by wiping down the counter, he said, “Are you angry with me? God knows the only reason I turned down your proposal was for your own good.”

She turned to him. “Augh! For my own good! If everyone would stop making decisions for my own good, I could figure out what's good for me myself. But you're right, we shouldn't get involved. I am so over that. Now leave me alone.”

“Ooh, you
are
mad at me. If not about that, then what?”

She gave him a smirk. “For reasons I can't explain. There seems to be a lot of that going on. And I'm just as mad at myself. I compromised the program. And my integrity.”

“Sometimes having integrity means questioning the rules.”

“Not in my family or my job. I'm the good girl. I'm loyal. I follow the rules.”

He crossed his arms loosely in front of his chest. “Do you get medals for doing that? Or just a pat on the head?”

A growl sounded in her throat, and her hazel eyes narrowed in anger. She scooped up a glob of icing from the counter and hurled it at him. He was so surprised, he couldn't move in time. It hit him in the cheek.

A mix of horror and humor lit her face. He slowly swiped at it, looking at the cake and icing smeared on his fingers. He lifted one finger to his mouth and licked some of it off.

“I like it.”

“It's butter cream,” she said begrudgingly.

“No, I like this side of you.”

Her expression changed to a serious one, as though he'd reprimanded her for acting up. “It's not a side of me. I simply lost my temper.”

He moved closer. “Uh-uh. I see something inside you.”

“What?”

“A feistiness, a streak of rebel.” He smeared the frosting from one of his other fingers across her cheek like war paint. “I think this is the real you, not the well-bred, obedient Daddy's girl.”

Before she could react, before he could think logically, he leaned forward and licked off that smear of icing. He loved the flare of indignation in her widened eyes and the way her mouth dropped open. All the invitation he needed.

He locked his mouth to hers, sweeping in and moving his tongue in and around. She held rigid for exactly one second before she responded, meeting his tongue move for move.

“Stop…” he managed to say.

“Stop? I didn't start—”

“Stop me. Just stop me, because I can't.”

He couldn't. God help him, he really couldn't. No matter what he'd said to her, no matter the conviction he had about not getting involved with her.

Her hands went up to his chest, but they didn't push him away. Like a cat's claws when it's kneading in pleasure, her fingers flexed against him.

“Stop…” Her voice was breathless and not convincing at all. “Stop doing this to me. You're making me…crazy.”

Crazy
. That was all he heard. Yes, crazy, delirious, mindless. He wove his fingers through her long hair, and just as he'd fantasized, pulled her head back and ran his tongue down her neck. He tasted flecks of icing, making her all the more delicious.

He ground his hips against her pelvis, aching for her. Not only a physical ache, though. He wanted to take her, make love to her, hold her, protect her. All those feelings exploded like an emotional orgasm. His body, though, wanted more of her, to feel her, touch her. He slid his hands up her stomach, his thumbs grazing the edges of her breasts. It
was all he could do to hold himself back, because once he touched her…

She moved into his hands, her breasts filling them, and he let out a groan, surrendering, squeezing, caressing, now wanting to feel them in the flesh. He kissed over the ridge of her collarbone, down to the top edge of her shirt. He saw the pink bra, lacy edge, the swell of her cleavage, ivory skin he knew would taste like heaven, icing or no. He undid the first button, then the second.

He wanted her so badly he could take her right there. He had such exquisite control over himself, but not with her. They were in the kitchen, where anyone could happen upon them, and he couldn't even begin to untangle himself to stop.

He unclasped the bra that thankfully hooked in the front and opened her shirt. “God, you're beautiful,” he said, meaning all of her, but at that moment he saw only those pale, firm breasts. He covered her nipple with his mouth, and she exhaled in a quick breath. Her fingers kneaded his hair, the tips of her nails grazing his scalp as her breath came faster.

Before he moved to the other breast, he looked up at her. Her head was tilted back, her lips parted, her eyes closed. She had surrendered, too.

He was going to take her right there if she didn't stop him. She wasn't the sensible one anymore. He wasn't in control. They were going to make love right there in the kitchen, which wouldn't be right, not for the first time, not for anytime.

He needed to feel her skin against his, to bury his face between her legs and give her every bit of pleasure, and she couldn't scream out without bringing someone in response, and that would humiliate her, get her into trouble…and still, still he couldn't stop.

Yes, yes, yes…

“No.”

Where had that word come from? Not him. No way.

“Nicholas, we can't do this.”

“I know,” he said on a gasp. “Need to find someplace private—”

She pushed him away and, with fumbling fingers, tried to clasp her bra. She was still breathing hard, her face flushed with heat.

So was he. He blinked, as though coming out of a trance. “You're right. Wrong place.” Wrong time. Wrong man. He lifted his hands. “I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself. Mad, happy, frustrated, you're too damned tempting.”

She kept missing the clasp and finally just buttoned her shirt. “You're the one who said we shouldn't—”

“I know, I know. And we shouldn't.” He looked at her, running his hand back over his mussed hair. “And then I attack you in the kitchen. It's crazy; I'm crazy.” Without thinking, he reached over to wipe away another fleck of icing on her arm. He caught himself, ripped a paper towel from the holder, and handed it to her. “Now I've given you something else to be angry about.”

“I wasn't angry about that.”

“And what I said about the medals, that was condescending. You've been brainwashed, manipulated. I'm not the guy who should break you out of that.”

He'd apologized, then insulted her again. He had a problem being too honest sometimes, but he couldn't help it. It
was
brainwashing. The only thing that could save her was the rebel buried inside her.

She looked through the open shelves to make sure no one was within earshot. “I don't like what you do to me.”

“I know; you do that to me, too.”